


If I Were to Pluck on Your Heartstrings

by Kerirra



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Amnesiac Stiles Stilinski, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Dysfunctional Relationships, Fluff, Found Family, Friendship, Gen, Powerful Stiles Stilinski, Spark Stiles Stilinski, completely made up magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2018-02-01
Packaged: 2018-10-01 23:09:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10202918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kerirra/pseuds/Kerirra
Summary: In which Stiles is a Spark with far more power than he has energy to use, and lives in a house that's probably haunted. Peter might be even worse than Stiles remembers, but it's a moot point, because Stiles doesn't remember anyway. Stiles doesn't remember very much at all, these days.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely inspired by Owl City's Plant Life

Stiles is still alive. He's alive and he remembers his name. He opens his eyes and it's the first thing he checks for. It's probably pointless, since he hasn't seen any evidence of the gaping hole in his memories growing larger. But then, how would he know what he's forgotten? His name, at least, he knows he still has. 

He just lies in bed for awhile as he does every morning, trying to remember. No luck today either. Eventually, the sharp pangs in his stomach force him to heave himself out of bed. He pads slowly into the kitchen in slippers and turns on the coffee maker. With a burst of sparks and a hissing whine, it whirs to life. 

He stares at it a moment in dismay. It sounds as if the runes powering it are going out again. It feels as if he just redrew them the other day. Well, to be fair, he does use it quite a lot. 

It's a Monday, probably. It could be Tuesday, but the important thing is that the full moon is tomorrow night. If he redraws the runes then, they should last a little longer. Honestly, he just needs to come up with a better combination of runes to create a steady flow of alternating current. It sounds like a lot of work to fix something that already works though, even if it is inefficient, and he hasn't had any coffee yet. 

There are still a couple mugs on the shelf, and they're probably even clean. Well, clean enough. He picks one up and pours sugar into it from the jar sitting next to the coffee maker. When the coffee finishes a moment later, it follows the sugar into the mug. 

The silverware is soaking in the sink because of that incident where he might have accidentally channeled lightning into the silverware drawer with a solid inch of something he vaguely hopes was salt. It should be fine by now though, he thinks. What's the worst that could happen? He probably should stop thinking things like that. That's probably how he ended up with memory loss. 

He reaches over to the sink for a spoon without looking, but something stops his hand before it reaches the water. He turns to look and- sharks. Yes, those are definitely sharks in his sink. He runs a hand over the surface of the water, trying to feel out any kind of magical signature. Nope, not magical sharks, just normal sharks perhaps a little longer than his hand. Huh. That's... new.

He gives up on the spoons for the time being and goes for the silverware drawer. There were some knives off to the side that avoided having crystallized salt burnt onto them, as he recalls. 

Stiles wanders through the old house, absently stirring his coffee with a mildly blackened knife. The drawing room still has sheets over the tables and chairs. It's been like that since he moved in, and he keeps telling himself to clean it up, but it's never come up. He doesn't have much use for a drawing room, after all. 

His stomach rumbles again. There are vegetables in the side garden that seem determined to thrive even though he doesn't take care of them. He could cook a squash or two, maybe even get some eggs from the chickens that have nested in the second shed. 

Stiles doesn't do either of those things. Instead, he goes behind the house, to where his own garden grows. These plants, he takes care of as best he knows how. 

First, he runs his free hand around the trunk of the rowan. A handful of sparks rise, then sink into the tree. It's finally starting to look like a proper tree, instead of the confused bush it resembled when he planted it. He's very proud. 

The oleanders are flowering, even though some part of Stiles' mind tells him it's the wrong season for that. By now, he's realized that these particular bushes just do whatever they want. Today the flowers are red, but tomorrow they might well be white, or gone completely. 

The wolfsbane twines around his fingers when he gets near it. He once read that wolfsbane is highly toxic to humans, but by that time he'd already had a sizable patch of it, and it hasn't killed him yet. He thinks it rather likes him. Most plants seem to like him, actually. That's somewhere near the top of the list of traits he's using to compile a selection of magical creatures he thinks he could be. 

He finishes running his hands over the herbs and pulling water out of the air for them. With a sigh, he shifts back on his heels and surveys the garden. It's... overgrown might be a nice way of putting it. It looks as one might expect, considering he only trims any of it if he needs the trimmings. It's free of weeds, at least, although that's more because the plants he takes care of tend to choke out the others than any actual weeding on Stiles' part. 

Stiles takes a sip of his coffee, then a gulp. No sense in putting it off any longer. He wanders back inside, to the library this time. A blackboard with a list scrawled on it hangs in between shelves of tomes and plant guides. The idea was that he'd complete at least one thing off the list every day until the house was completely refurbished.

When he moved in, the roof over the library had caved in places, and the shelves were warped and molding. It took him two days to repair it all, after the roof was fixed. It's been twice as many days since he was able to finish one of the other tasks on the list. He stares at it blankly for several moments, trying to find something he actually feels capable of doing. Nothing stands out. 

Now that he's finished the important things like the library, the kitchen, and his workroom, he's completely unmotivated to finish the rest. He almost settles for working on the sunroom, but changes his mind at the last second. He'll go into town today, he decides. 

Stiles managed to make some fairly useful trinkets yesterday while he was putting off cleaning out the attic. If he brings those and perhaps some fresh herbs, he should be able to afford that new tome he's been eyeing. Oh, and groceries. He needs those too. Normally he'd rather eat sparingly than go shopping, but he's nearly out of coffee, and that just won't do. 

Maybe, if everything goes well, he can get himself a new plant. That thought finally tips the scales. While it still doesn't sound exciting, exactly, it should be at least bearable. 

Grudgingly, he changes out his loose tee shirt and shorts for worn jeans and a soft flannel shirt. He fishes his keys out of the bowl on the dresser and pockets his wallet and phone. There's no point locking the front door, since the sunroom is still missing half of one wall, so he just pulls it closed behind himself. 

The jeep starts with a purr that sets Stiles' teeth on edge, as always. It sounds nearly familiar, but just subtly wrong, like a favorite song hummed off-tune. He's still not really sure why he bought it. He had intended to buy something small and generic, so as not to draw attention. When he saw it at the used car lot, though, he bought it almost without thinking. 

Sometimes, when he's not looking directly at it, the sky blue exterior looks several shades lighter, which he doesn't question. If he questioned all the strange things he sees, he's sure he'd go crazy. Err, more crazy. 

Sal's Used Books is, without question, the sketchiest bookshop in the small town of Wilda. For starters, it's not a proper shop at all, but several storage units with floor to ceiling shelves and doors in between. It also somehow always has the impression of being dark inside, even when there's plenty of light. It's probably Stiles' very favorite place in town. 

"Well, well," a heavy voice drawls, "if it isn't the hermit of the Blackburn house."  
"Hello Sal," Stiles greets, unruffled. He can't see the shopkeeper, but he isn't surprised that Sal knows he's arrived. 

"Buying or selling today, Stiles?" This time, the voice comes from over Stiles' shoulder, and he turns casually to find the taller man well within his personal space. It would startle him, expect that Sal does it nearly every time. 

Stiles tilts his head to the side, mildly curious, "Are you trying to scare off customers?" 

"It's working, isn't it?" Sal purrs. Stiles just arches a brow at him until he backs off with a huff, "Well, you're hardly just a customer, now are you?" 

"No, I'm not," Stiles agrees, placing the plastic bag of trinkets and herbs on the counter. He leaves Sal to paw through the collection and slips into the back room. This is where Sal keeps things of a more magical nature. The door is warded quite thoroughly, but Sal is fond of him, so the wards only hum faintly as he steps through. 

The tome he's been eyeing– another bestiary– is still right where he remembers it being. 

Stiles brings the book back to where Sal is still sorting out the bag. He puts it down on the counter and Sal makes an inquiring noise, "More than usual," he notes. 

"I had some time." 

Sal only hums in response. Once he's counted the protection charms and scent dampening amulets, he walks behind the counter. "To the normal account?" he asks, glancing at the book Stiles left in the counter. Stiles can see him mentally subtracting the book's cost from the total. Stiles nods absently, already collecting the book. 

"Not going to stay this time?" Sal asks almost carefully.

"No, I need to go shopping." 

Sal grins, quick and sharp, but with a lingering edge of caution, like he thinks Stiles is going to vanish if he moves too suddenly. "Pleasure doing business with you, as always." 

Stiles nods again, ignores the way Sal looks like he wants to stop Stiles from leaving, and walks out. Sal is probably just worried about him, living alone in a house that was completely run down before Stiles bought it. Stiles appreciates the gesture, he does, but coming from Sal it feels too much like pity. He'll let Sal pay him more than he should for the trinkets and undercharge him for books, but no more. 

Stiles pauses just outside the door, a thought passing through his mind seemingly at random. He pokes his head pack through the door, startling Sal, who looks to be in the middle of moving his new stock to the back room. 

"Hey Sal, do you have any books on sharks?"

Sal just stares at him a moment, then asks, "Magical sharks...?"

Stiles is glad he isn't the only one who had that as their first thought. "No, no, normal sharks." 

Sal opens his mouth, closes it with a confused frown, then turns away without a word. When he comes back, he's carrying six books. Four are stories, one is a picture book clearly written for children by someone who does not remember being a child, and the last is an aquatic life textbook. Stiles flips through the textbook, and finding it sufficiently detailed, picks it up. 

"I'd like this one," he tells Sal, who's hovering worriedly. 

"Sure, but Stiles-" he cuts off, looking like he desperately wants to ask why Stiles needs a book about sharks, but restrains himself. Before he can change his mind, Stiles leaves again, calling a brief words of thanks over his shoulder. 

The grocery store is wonderfully empty, even for a midmorning on what is either Monday or Tuesday. Stiles even finds himself humming tunelessly as he picks out mostly canned and dried foods. 

As he's passing the meat isle, something in his chest tugs gently. Not one to ignore his instincts, Stiles picks out two steaks with something like bemusement. It's been awhile since he's had meat anyway, so– assuming he gets around to cooking it– steak will be a nice change. 

The cashier gives him that narrow eyed look that she always does. Stiles can't decide if she thinks he might be stealing, or if she thinks he's too young to be shopping by himself. Either way, she's wrong. Stiles isn't actually sure how old he is, can't find any records of a 'Stiles' that seem right, but some part of his mind supplies that he hasn't been too young to go grocery shopping for a long time. 

Stiles drives home in a good mood, new rosemary plant sitting on the passenger seat next to him. He'd even managed to handle sitting in a restaurant long enough to eat a decent breakfast. He glances at the clock on the dashboard and winces. More like lunch, actually. Still, it makes him feel better. Even if he doesn't get anything else done today, it'll have been a good day. 

Stiles puts away the groceries nearly automatically, stopping only briefly to pour a bag of water with minnows he bought at the pet supply store into the sink. They're freshwater minnows, so they won't live long in the sink, which is probably fairly salty. Then again, that's fine, they probably wouldn't last long either way. 

The drawing room is unused and dusty as always as he passes the door on his way upstairs, all except the large dark lump in one of the chairs. Stiles pauses on the first stair, running that thought through his head again. He takes three cautious steps back and peers into the drawing room. 

There's a black bear sitting in one of the lounge chairs. It has one of Stiles' books out and is gingerly turning the pages with the tips of its claws. When Stiles just stands there with his mouth open for another minute, the bear turns and gives him what is obviously meant to be a disapproving look. It has a pair of round spectacles perched on its nose. Stiles is not sure how this is his life. 

The thing is, whatever Stiles is, it's powerful. So powerful, in fact, that he leaks magic. The longer he stays in a place, the more it turns... slightly sentient. The house fixes itself much more easily than it should, and the rooms he uses generally stay free of dust and dirt. The plants outside lean towards him when he walks by, and the ones that produce fruit or flowers do so far more often then they ought. On the same line, animals that get too close tend to... pick up extra traits. 

The chickens in the shed have actual beds scrounged from scraps of material and feathers. They look enough like nests that it didn't bother Stiles too much, but now he's wondering what he'd see if he went out and looked. It seems like it's getting worse. 

With a sigh, Stiles opens the front door and herds the bear out. Thankfully, it goes, huffing in disgruntlement all the while. It even leaves the book, although Stiles notes that it doesn't take off the glasses. Seriously, how is this his life.


	2. Chapter 2

The next order of business is clearly the sunroom. Stiles thought he wouldn't get any unwanted visitors this far into the woods and in a way, he was right since the animals seem to be reluctant to hurt him. In another sense though, he's really feeling the need to have a house that has doors he can lock, that will actually keep stuff out. 

The sunroom is framed by glass panels set in black steel frames, with a cork floor. Or well, that's probably what it used to look like. There are still a couple unbroken panels, but the majority are either cracked or fully shattered. Some of the metal frames are bent and most are rusted. The floor is mostly plants, by now. There are still a couple places where the cork didn't get wet enough to decompose, but the rest is overtaken by grass and weeds. 

Stiles starts with the panels that are merely cracked. Magic can find and arrange things, but it tends to be quite draining. He learned that lesson the hard way, when he repaired the roof over the library. The shingles were missing in some places, and instead of looking for them, he used magic to find them. The roof was done in three hours. Stiles passed out and slept for two days afterward. 

Once he's done with the cracked panels, he moves on to the panels in large pieces. He assembles them like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, and his magic mends the seams until the panels are whole again. As he's working, the glass even cleans itself, though somewhat halfheartedly. 

The glass and metal take Stiles several very tiring hours to repair. When he's done, he takes in the decomposed cork and the plants swaying hopefully in the now inclosed space. He narrows his eyes, and the plants quiet down a bit. He doesn't have the energy to deal with this, he decides. 

Instead of finishing the sunroom, he decides it would be prudent to make sure there aren't any other... guests in his house. It's dusk when he makes it to the attic. He's feeling fairly relieved, because he hasn't found anything aside from the sharks and surely there won't be anything all the way up here. In hindsight, he should know better than to think stuff like that. 

There are bats in the attic, as there are in many old houses. However, these bats have clearly been here awhile, because they're developed what looks like an elaborate traffic system. There are even bats hanging upside down, waving red feathers like traffic signals every so often. The magic leaking problem is definitely getting worse, and Stiles doesn't have the energy to deal with this, either. 

He knows he should eat before he goes to sleep, since the last thing he ate was lunch at the diner on first street, but he can't be bothered to cook anything, or even go into the kitchen. He curls up in bed instead, pausing only to change out of his now dirty clothes. 

That night, he dreams of fire. In his dreams, he is surrounded by it, but it doesn't burn him. It dances on his skin and flares around his hair. It's a dream he has often, and he settles into comfortably. 

At some point, he looks down and there's a bottle in his hands. There's something flammable in it, he knows, and he reaches forward to light the fuse with the flames dancing on his hands. He throws the bottle and it arcs away from him, into the darkness. It hits something, and he can feel the flare of heat as the flammable liquid combusts all at once, but he can't see the explosion he knows must be there. 

Then there's screaming, and it jolts him awake, sweating and shaking. It's still dark outside, and the screaming doesn't persist in the real world. Stiles thinks about trying to go back to sleep, but one thought of the bottle leaving his hand in enough to send him stumbling out of bed. 

In the kitchen, the coffee machine sparks and lets out a bellow of smoke before Stiles curses and turns it back off. He has enough adrenaline in his body that it almost feels like he's not exhausted, for once. Suddenly inspired (and also trying desperately to keep himself from remembering the dream), he runs upstairs and carts down his entire collection of books on runes and warding. 

The morning passes in a blur of research and experimentation. Stiles looks up from his third attempt to integrate a lightning rune and a rune that acts like a capacitor with a containment ward. The sun is already well up, and looks to be casting mostly straight shadows, so it's probably not morning anymore. 

He shuffles the pile of ash that was his last attempt to the side of his desk and notices in the process that his hands are shaking. Now that he's thinking about it, he's quite hungry. When he stands up, he nearly falls back into the chair as the sudden rush of blood blacks out the corners of his vision. 

He makes it three steps to the fridge, his head throbbing in a hollow, dull pulse. There's some sort of yogurt he doesn't remember buying on the top shelf and he grabs for it desperately. It tastes fairly terrible, but he scarfs down half the container anyway. 

The kitchen chair clatters across the wood floor as Stiles collapses back into it. He stares blankly at the wall while he waits for his head to stop hurting. He vaguely remembers feeling like this before. Remembers sitting in a house that smelled like strangers and getting so lost in research that he forgot to eat. 

Then– then there were hands. Hands so warm against his that they almost burned. Chiding laughter, and then food pressed into his grasp. He can't recall faces, but he remembers someone bringing him coffee and food so many times that it's habit to look up and expect to see someone in his kitchen. 

There's no one there, of course there isn't. Stiles knows he doesn't have anyone he trusts that much. But he used to. He used to, and the loss burns like it never has before. 

Stiles imagined that he probably had friends and family. It's a natural thought, when one can't remember anything, he thinks. He figured he probably did, but he never dwelled on the thought. It's easier, in a way, to put it out of his mind because the fact is, he doesn't remember any of them. 

He doesn't, but they probably remember him, and he's been living in this run down house for months now and no one has come looking. He has a bank account and a car in his name and a driver's license. And sure, the last name on his papers is completely made up, but Stiles can't be a common name. Surely, if someone were looking, that would be enough. He's found people on less, he knows, even if he can't remember who, or why he was looking. 

For months, he's been waiting for his old life to crash into him. Maybe it's time to build a new one. He doesn't have friends, but... Perhaps he just hasn't been looking. Next time, he thinks he'll stay and read awhile when he goes to Sal's. He doesn't trust Sal, not completely. He doesn't trust anyone, though, and someday he thinks he could. 

Pleased with his new resolve, he turns back to his experiments. He thinks this combination should work– even if it doesn't create current, it should at least do something. The components make sense, but he hasn't managed to get past the attachment part. 

Wards tend to attach better to living or formerly living things, but the lightening rune is... volatile. He's already burnt a sheet of very nice parchment, and two different types of woods. Maybe he should be focusing less on the ward? It's sort of like a seal, a container to hold the energy so it isn't arcing everywhere. He figures it should go on last, and he hasn't even gotten past the lightening rune yet. 

Stiles glances around his kitchen, looking for something suitable for lightning. His eyes settle on the silverware drawer and, well, it's worth a try, right? He etches in the capacitor rune on the handle of the butter knife, then gets the outline of the lightning rune sketched. He's starting to feel little shocks, so he pauses to fetch a thick set of rubber gloves. 

When he finishes the second rune, it's sparking all over the place. That's exactly what the containment ward was for anyway, though, so he's not worried. As expected, the ward doesn't settle well in the metal. Even stone might have been better, it looks like one hard hit would break the ward completely. Which actually, is kind of an interesting idea. 

There's a variety of squash in the garden; Stiles selects one with softer skin and carries it around to the driveway. He's never tried throwing knives before, so he's not sure if he's good at it. Only one way to find out. 

He's not particularly good at it. The knife glances off the surface, scraping down a few inches before it catches on the skin. It's nearly fully outside the squash, but apparently it's enough, because with a small flash of light, the ward breaks. The squash then does about what one would expect, when exposed to a large amount of electrical current. That is to say, it explodes abruptly and extremely messily. 

Stiles' first thought is, naturally, 'That was so cool.' It's followed shortly by, 'I wonder if it would work the same on arrowheads.' Stiles doesn't shoot a bow, that he's aware of, nor does he feel the need to start. Still, it isn't a bad idea. Not for sale– the packaging would be a nightmare– but not a bad idea. 

Stiles wanders back into the kitchen, considering buying a set of actual throwing knives to test the combination on, and his eyes fall on the coffee maker. Ah yes, that was what he was trying to fix, wasn't it. This combination is more likely to make his coffee maker into an explosive than it is to power it, so with a sigh, he pulls out his brushes. 

He's still interested in making a better combination of runes to power the machine, but for now he'll make do with the old set. Coffee in the immediate future is more important than magical innovation, after all. 

The runes flare to life with a gratifying hum and the coffee maker sputters, then starts brewing when he turns it on. It's only early evening, but there's a number of things he should check on, in preparation for the full moon. There's a few more power runes that could probably stand to be redrawn. He's particularly concerned with the upstairs breaker, since it supplies power to all the lights on the second floor. 

Stiles putters around the house well into evening, redrawing runes and adding a few additional runes in places he thinks he might start using before the next full moon. As the sun is setting, he steams some vegetables for a light dinner. 

After that, it's back to work, prying molding from the frames of the front and back doors so that he can see the wards inlayed along the inside of each main doorway. The wards are a thing of beauty. Art, even, and Stiles won't hear otherwise. Protection, intent, and detection are woven into a net over the house itself. The windows and doors each have additional layers to shield from physical attacks from the outside. Stiles's room is practically a fortress in of itself. 

Unfortunately the sunroom– having only recently gained complete walls– is not included in the house wards, which Stiles will have to fix. While he's at it, he figures he should add another layer to the general house wards. 

...So Stiles got a little lost in the wards, he'll admit it. It's long past midnight and his eyes are burning with the lack of sleep. Most of the time was spent in the library, weaving together detection with property protection in an attempt to keep someone from leaving the room with any of his books. On the plus side though, he's pretty sure it worked. Granted, he won't know until someone tries it, but he feels good about it. 

Stiles stands up from where he was slumped at the kitchen table, dropping his cereal bowl on the growing pile of dishes next to the sink. For a moment he just stands there and stares at the sharks lazily circling in the water. He's going to have to do something about this; eating cereal without a spoon wasn't an experience he's keen to repeat. 

Before he can turn away, the wards chime in his ears. The sound startles him, even though he programmed them to do that. It's just, they haven't actually ever done it before. It could be because they didn't have a sealed perimeter to work with before or... Or maybe it's because no one has ever come to his house before now. 

The wards patiently repeat the sound, nudging him in the direction of the front door. Stiles follows the urging, heart rate picking up to a nervous staccato beat. It could be literally anyone, he's pretty sure the whole town knows he lives out here. It is still absurdly late at night, though, and whoever it is hasn't exactly knocked on the door. That's probably a bad sign. Normal, nice people don't come quietly calling at half past three in the morning. 

The peephole in the front door is entirely unhelpful. Stiles makes a mental note to work on that even as he reaches for the door handle. He hesitates for a brief instant, but he built these wards. Was buried in them for several hours at the start of the night, even. No one with intent to harm him or the house would have made it within five feet of the door. 

The door opens silently to reveal a wolf curled up on the doormat. It's big, for a wolf. Or maybe it isn't, Stiles wouldn't know. Last he checked, California didn't have wolves. He extends a hand into the air over the wolf and yup, there it is. There is nothing about this wolf that is not dripping in foreign magic. 

Ok yes, good. He has a magical wolf on his porch. Err, probably a human masquerading as a wolf, actually. Stiles feels like that should be making him feel better, but it isn't really. 

The wolf stirs, peering grouchily up at Stiles, like it's offended by his staring. Which it could be. Since it's probably a person, not an actual wolf. Stiles isn't sure what he's supposed to do in this situation. There's still no indication of malice from the wards, and Stiles just wants to sleep at this point. It's cold outside though, the biting chill of winter just starting to set in. He'd feel bad leaving it outside, especially if it really is a person. 

With a groan, he pulls the door open wider and steps out of the way. "Well come on then," he huffs. The wards ting softly as the wolf lumbers to its feet and plods across the threshold. Once it's inside, Stiles shuts the door behind it. It looks even bigger, in the inclosed space of the front hall. 

They stand awkwardly in the hall for a few long seconds while Stiles tries to work out how to handle this. For an instant, he tries to think of what he'd do if he were certain the creature across from him is human. That train of thought is not particularly helpful; he wouldn't know what to do with a human either. He's too tired for this. 

Hoping the wolf will follow, he walks upstairs. The room at the end of the hall has a bed already made up, so Stiles makes for it. He did that back when he was still expecting someone to find him at any moment, when he first moved in. By now the sheets are a bit dusty, but it's still got to be better than sleeping on the doormat. 

"You can sleep here," he tells the wolf, who has followed him and is now staring at him inquisitively. Absently, Stiles props open the door so it can't close in the middle of the night and trap the wolf inside. It could probably get out, but the question is really how much damage the door would take before it broke, and Stiles doesn't want to know the answer. 

"My door is the one next to the stairs, so just bark or growl or whatever noise wolves are supposed to make if you need something." With that, he turns and goes to his room. He's asleep before he closes his eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles wakes up to a light pinging sound, like glass bells. With a groan, he rubs a hand over his eyes. He tries to remember what time he went to bed, and draws a blank. For a moment, he considers going back to sleep. He was having a weird dream though, one where he let a wolf into his house for some stupid reason, and he thinks it was edging toward nightmare territory.

The pinging sound comes again, and Stiles props himself up on his elbows to search for the source of the noise. His door is open and- and that wasn't a dream. Wonderful. He has officially learned nothing from horror movies. 

The wolf is sitting just outside his room, head tilted to the side. It whines high in its throat just as the pinging comes a final time. It's the wards, Stiles realizes. It's been some months since he set his room wards, and he can't quite recall what they're supposed to do to uninvited guests. Whatever it is, he's sure it's quite unpleasant, since so far, he appears to have a heavy dose of paranoia. There are no obvious puddles of blood or anything, so Stiles assumes the wolf was smart enough to not try anything. 

Stiles hauls himself out of bed and stumbles to the door. He hesitates before he passes through the doorway, at the very edge of the wards. This is a bad idea. He knows it is, but his instincts aren't screaming, and the wolf is giving him increasingly unimpressed looks. So he steps out into the hall.

The wolf doesn't move, doesn't change its expression. Stiles gets the impression of a raised brow, even though Stiles can't see any such thing under the thick dark brown fur. 

"I suppose you want breakfast," Stiles grumbles, and walks past the wolf to the stairs. After a moment, Stiles can hear the click of its claws on the hardwood floors as it follows. Something about the rhythm sounds off, one click lighter than the previous three. Sure enough, when Stiles gets to the kitchen, the wolf passes him favoring it's right front paw. 

That's not great, because Stiles has no idea if he has any way to heal injuries. He must have had something before, because he can't imagine not being in the thick of whatever is going on. There's nothing coming to mind though, no methods or things to check for, so he lets it go for the time being.

Now that there's enough light and Stiles is mostly awake enough to pay attention, the wolf doesn't look like it's in great shape in general. He remembers reading somewhere that a dirty coat is a sign of an unhealthy animal. If it's true, then that's another bad sign, because either the wolf is an odd, mottled brown, or its coat is absolutely filthy. It's also probably too thin, but that's hard to say under all the fur. 

Well, of all the problems this wolf seems to have, the last seems easiest to fix, so Stiles sets to making food. He bought steak at the store, but it's frozen, and shouldn't be cooked until it's defrosted. Wolves are carnivores, Stiles thinks, but maybe they're actually omnivorous? He's not sure, and either way it might not matter, because this isn't technically a wolf, it's a human in a wolf's body... But it's a wolf's body... Either way, he decides, eggs should be safe. 

The chickens cluck at him when he goes to collect eggs, but they seem largely willing to ignore him otherwise. The nests have indeed developed pillows and blankets, which doesn't even make sense since Stiles knows chickens don't sleep like that. There's something that looks like it could be a crib in the corner and Stiles very carefully doesn't look at it too closely. The floor of the shed is also swept clean, which Stiles finds about as impressive as it is confusing, because how even?

The wolf is watching curiously from the doorway of the house when he comes out of the shed, head tilted to the side again. He can see its eyes tracking the movement of one of the chickens in the background. "Hey," he snaps, pointing a finger at the wolf, "don't even think about it." The wolf's tail thumps once against the floor and it makes a breathy huffing sound that Stiles suspects is laughter. It doesn't sound remotely chastised. Wonderful. 

In the end, Stiles puts the steak in water to defrost, then fries the eggs. The wolf just stands by and watches him, which annoys him for reasons he doesn't understand. "I could pour this whole thing of pepper on yours," Stiles threatens idly. The wolf rolls it's eyes at him. Literally, actually rolls its eyes and yeah, this is definitely a person. 

Stiles puts the eggs on two plates and carries them to the table. He sets them down automatically on opposite sides of the table. He's halfway sitting down at his own place when he realizes this might not work the way he wants it to. Is there etiquette for this? It seems insulting to put the plate on the floor, but what else is he supposed to do?

The wolf huffs at him– less amused this time– then jumps lightly onto the chair. It nearly overbalances and tips over the other side, but somehow corrects in time. Then it sits and puts its front paws up on the table on either side of plate, because they don't really fit on the chair. It's hunched over, and the position looks uncomfortable, but who is Stiles to judge? 

"I need bigger chairs," Stiles mutters to himself. When he looks up, the wolf's ears have gone back a little, and it's eyes are narrowed like it's glaring at him. Or possibly just frowning, Stiles can't really tell. It doesn't do anything though, so Stiles tries not to overthink it. That mostly works.

"What gender pronouns do you prefer?" Stiles asks when it's done eating. It stares blankly back at him. Okay then. "She/her?" he prompts. He knows he could check it's biological gender, but that seems like a good way to get maimed and besides, you never know with these things. It just keeps staring. Maybe not female then.

"He/his?" This time, the wolf's tail awkwardly wags against the back of the chair. "I'll take that as a 'yes' then," Stiles interjects cautiously. It- he- jumps off the chair to sit next to it instead, and doesn't respond otherwise. He'd meant it as a question, but fine, Stiles can just assume things, he's good at that anyway. 

They sit in silence, watching each other for another few seconds, until Stiles decides he's not having a staring contest with a wolf, and gets up. "You, sir, are in desperate need of a shower," he informs the wolf. 

The wolf tilts his head and gives Stiles that look again, the one that's either frowning or glaring. Stiles is leaning towards frowning at this point. 

Stiles scoffs back, "Oh come on, you can't say you didn't notice."

The wolf gives him a flat growl for his troubles, but the wolf's hackles don't rise and he follows Stiles to the upstairs bathroom, so Stiles figures it's okay. 

The shower does not go well. Ok, in the strictest sense, it's a success. The wolf gets clean. On the other hand though, Stiles ends up filthy and they use nearly all of Stiles' shampoo and conditioner. And that's another thing. The wolf is apparently offended by his off-brand shampoo. Which, okay, he has a point. It's doesn't work that well and the scent isn't great, but hey, it's cheap. Stiles thinks someone who's mooching off of someone else doesn't get to complain. 

They're both in a bad mood afterwards, so after Stiles finishes his own shower, he decides he needs a break. As he usually does when he's stressed, he goes down to the garden and wanders around through the plants. He forgot to feed them yesterday, but they seem to cycle with the moon, so they all look even healthier than usual despite that. The wolfsbane is nearly in full flower; he sits with it for longer than usual, admiring the blue blossoms. 

At some point, he notices that the wolf is following some distance behind him. Since the wolf doesn't seem to want to actually interact, Stiles ignores him. After he makes a full circuit of the garden twice, Stiles is finally feeling capable of maybe getting something done. Not quite sunroom levels of getting stuff done though, so he settles for working on more trinkets for Sal. 

The wolf seems very curious about the whole process, so Stiles talks him though making a minor protection charm. They don't do all that much, honestly. All they really do is make a person a bit more resilient, which translates to getting sick less frequently, and being slightly harder to injure in small ways. It's only about enough to be noticeable. Still, Sal says they sell well, and they're easy to make. 

Stiles doesn't make scent-dampening amulets this time, because they involve metalwork, and Stiles is not in the mood. He's sort of also not sure if he wants to wolf to know about those just yet. He already trusts the guy more than he probably should, all things considered. The wolf's mannerisms are familiar though, like Stiles has seem them so many times it's not a challenge to interpret them, even on canine features. 

By the time Stiles has made three charms, the wolf seems to have lost interest. He grumbles wordlessly at Stiles, and when there's no response, flops down around Stiles' chair. He yawns, showing off a full row of very sharp teeth, then settles with a flutter of eyelids. Stiles doesn't blame him for being tired, with those injuries. Even Stiles is tired, and he's not injured. 

Stiles works for a couple hours, until the light coming through the window is slanted and golden. He's not sure when he woke up, but it's probably been at least five hours since breakfast. If he were alone, he'd probably wait another hour or two before eating. He's not, though, and being able to clearly feel the wolf's ribs during the shower has only reinforced Stiles' impression of the wolf's lack of proper meals. 

The wolf stirs when he hops off the chair, peering lazily at Stiles as he cleans up his desk. It pads after him on silent paws when Stiles leaves the room, only to curl up in the corner of the kitchen when it becomes clear that Stiles will be staying put awhile. 

Stiles feeds the sharks again, then gets to cooking. Apparently, he used to be well practiced in cooking, because he can think of several ways to cook the steak. He settles on pan-searing it, then baking it. Since there's an abundance of squash in the garden and the oven is on anyway, he figures he'll bake one to go with the meat. 

Maybe he should make a grill when it gets warmer. He thinks he's fond of grills. He could plant some corn too, then they could have grilled corn with the steak. The mental image of the wolf trying to eat corn on the cob is motivation enough to insure the grill goes on the to do list. 

He stops midway through seasoning the squash. He's already thinking of when it gets warmer. Something about the wolf makes Stiles assume he's going to stay. Something about him makes Stiles want him to stay. ...Or maybe the isolation is finally getting to Stiles, and he just needs other friends. Too soon to say, really. 

When the meal is ready and the wolf has started whining low in his throat where it's almost a growl, Stiles takes their plates into the living room. Breakfast taught Stiles that tables are overrated when one doesn't fit on the chairs and he's hoping the couches will be better. He's optimistic, but not entirely sure. Although the couches are big, they're not that big. 

Stiles sits down and then holds the plates steady while the wolf jumps up next to him. The couch Stiles picked is just long enough for the wolf to sprawl out and still give Stiles enough room to sit on the end. That, of course, means that the wolf's head is nearly in Stiles' lap. Stiles isn't going to be weird about this. 

He sets the plate down and gets a sort of half nod, which Stiles chooses to take as gratitude. "Err, do you want me to cut it for you...?" he offers. The wolf snorts, then shows its teeth. Stiles is not sure if that means the wolf is laughing at him, is offended, or maybe- oh wait, no, it's definitely both. 

The wolf tears into the meat with something like joy. It's impressive and somewhat cool, but also... "Eww," Stiles complains. The wolf is, after all, eating right next to Stiles, and there are things he didn't need to know about the sound meat makes when it's ripped apart. 

The meal is better than breakfast, for sheer comfort of both of them, but Stiles is planning on keeping his eyes open for other solutions. The wolf probably doesn't want to sit at the table like that again– Stiles wouldn't, it looked painful– and Stiles doesn't feel any need to repeat this experience. 

After dinner it's still too early to sleep, so Stiles heads up to the library. His new bestiary is waiting just where he left it, so he grabs his notebook and settles on the floor in front on the lounge chair. The wolf curls up on the chair above him, draping his head on Stiles' left shoulder so that he can see the book as well. 

The wolf seems to read at about the same pace Stiles does, and he doesn't appear to mind Stiles scrawling down notes every once in awhile. The bestiary is unlike any other Stiles has seen. It's got more creatures and more details, but some of them are odd, or just plain wrong. 

Stiles doesn't know why people tend to think old bestiaries are best. True, it has more information than anything more recent Stiles has seen. Still, the information is practically archaic in places. Why on earth would anyone need silver crossbow bolts when bullets exist? Maybe it's a style thing? As far as he knows, Stiles is on the wrong side of the hunter equation to understand how they think. 

The plant section, when he gets to it, is laughable. Stiles gives up on taking notes in favor of making sardonic comments to the wolf. For his part, the wolf sometimes points out especially amusing lines with a paw, and generally huffs his impression of laughter into Stiles' shoulder. It's a good evening. 

The next day is no such thing. Stiles wakes up with a splitting headache and absolutely no energy. He stays half asleep as long as he can, until the wards are chiming and Stiles's stomach is growling. On the way to the kitchen, he stumbles into the bathroom for a couple painkillers. By the time he gets down to the kitchen, the throbbing is dulled, but still quite present. 

The wolf starts eyeing him more closely as the day goes on. Stiles doesn't think the wolf notices, but his ears are slowly migrating down and back. By noon, Stiles is utterly exhausted, and the wolf looks downright worried. 

When Stiles tries to get up the make lunch for the wolf, he's stopped by a low growl. The wolf bites the edge of Stiles' sleeve gently and uses the grip to pull him into the living room. He then growls and tugs until Stiles gets that the wolf wants him to lie on the couch. Once he's settled, the wolf bounds off, returning shortly with a blanket trailing behind him. 

He leaves twice more, once to fetch the bottle of painkillers Stiles left on the bathroom counter, and again to bring a water bottle. Stiles arranges the blanket and takes the painkillers in a hazy state of bemusement. As soon as the water bottle is safely capped on the coffee table, the wolf jumps up on the end of the couch. 

He then shimmies forward until he can drape himself over Stiles like a heavier, breathing blanket. The wolf is probably heavier than Stiles, and even spread out along his side, the weight is such that Stiles can't move hardly at all. That's alright though, because after a few seconds, the pain fades until it's merely an echo. All of the muscles Stiles didn't realize he was tensing relax one by one, and he slips into unconsciousness without meaning to. 

Stiles wakes in the evening, headache a minute pulsing in the back of his head that promises to bloom into a full migraine if he moves too quickly. He doesn't move quickly at all. The wolf seems to have fallen asleep on top of Stiles, but as soon as Stiles starts moving, he blinks himself awake and grudgingly gets up. 

The wolf follows Stiles into the kitchen closely, as he's afraid Stiles is going to collapse at any moment. Which okay, that's fair. Not accurate, but fair. 

"It's fine, I'm fine," Stiles tells him, "It was just a migraine, I get those sometimes." 

The wolf backs off all of a couple inches, expression dubious at best. He lets Stiles cook a late dinner out of vegetables from the garden and some pasta, and even helps where he can. Stiles is out of meat, but if the wolf minds the vegetarian meal, he doesn't show any signs of it. 

After dinner, Stiles retreats to the couch with a couple of warding tomes. The wolf seems more interested in the one Stiles has already read a couple times, so he props it open against the couch before settling down with his own book. Every now and again, the wolf nudges the hand that's trailing off the couch and Stiles turns the page. 

At some point, the wolf apparently gets tired of the book and jumps up on the couch again. He sprawls over Stiles as if he's nothing more than a warm pillow. Stiles considers getting up and going to bed, but he's comfortable and he'll just read for a few more minutes.


	4. Chapter 4

Stiles wakes up on the couch. The muscles in his neck are tight in what promises to be a painful experience when he tries to move. His head, however, feels great. At least there's that.

Stiles feels something shift and lifts his head. The wolf has somehow migrated all the way up to Stiles' chest, where he's got the side of his head tucked under Stiles' chin. It's... well it's actually fairly comfortable, and the wolf looks happy enough. Stiles is done. How is this his life. 

The wolf lazily blinks his eyes open and lifts his head to give Stiles an inquisitive look. Yup, Stiles is done. 

"I'm going into town today," Stiles announces. He's feeling the need to see other people, if just to make sure he's still sane. Or if not, then at least as sane as he was before. He's not asking for miracles here. 

The wolf is sitting expectantly beside the door by the time Stiles has showered and eaten. "I suppose you think you're coming along?" Stiles comments wryly. The wolf huffs and turns its nose up in a gesture that's probably supposed to look magnanimous. 

Stiles laughs helplessly, "You know you can't come into the store with me, right?"

The wolf tilts his head to the side a bit and it's a little hard to tell, but Stiles thinks the wolf is raising an eyebrow at him. That expression is either 'Of course I know that,' or 'I'd like to see someone try to stop me.' Either way, Stiles is going to pretend it didn't happen. He's already feeling a bit unhinged, no need to feed the metaphorical fire. 

The wolf seems to have no issues sitting in the front seat, and Stiles is a little confused about how normal the whole thing feels. Maybe it's an amnesia thing. He considers the possibility that the wolf is someone he used to know, and can't quite discount it. Problem is, the wolf can't– or possibly just doesn't– talk at all, so that's not actually very helpful.

Stiles isn't sure what he'd say if he thought the wolf would answer, anyway. At first he wanted to go back to being who he was, so he wanted to remember. Now he wants to remember, but mostly to see how he compares to the person he used to be. He wants to know who he was, but then, he also doesn't. That's probably an amnesia thing too. 

Stiles drives them to Sal's first, because groceries will probably always be an afterthought. Stiles is getting more excited about this visit the closer they get. He's never showed up more than once a week, and usually not even that often. Surprising Sal is probably going to sound like a terrible idea in hindsight, but at the moment it sounds great. 

They arrive at the shop and the wolf follows Stiles out as if he is in no way worried about being kicked out. Then again, he probably isn't. There's a sign by the door that says no pets, and Stiles turns to the wolf to point it out. Judging by the way he's baring his teeth accusingly at Stiles, he's already seen it. His hackles aren't up, and his ears are still swiveling freely, so he's not angry, just annoyed.

Stiles is still laughing when he pushes the door open. 

Sal's disembodied voice floats out of the depths of the shop, "Welcome to Sal's, home of many- Stiles?"

"Sal," Stiles greets cheerfully, pushing the door open farther for the wolf. 

Sal steps out from between two bookshelves, looking both surprised and amused. The expression drops off his face abruptly as soon as he fully rounds the corner. "Stiles, behind you!" Sal exclaims. 

Stiles spins, magic crackling down his arms and arcing between his fingers. He's already dropped into a fighting stance by the time he's fully turned around. Beside him, the wolf has his hackles raised and ears forward, a low growl rumbling in the back of his throat. There's a tense moment where nothing happens. The parking lot is just as empty as it was when they drove in. The jeep is sitting in the sun, and a stray breeze stirs the warm air. 

"Stiles, that's a werewolf," Sal says cautiously from behind them.

"What?" Stiles snaps, and then the words register. The magic dancing around his wrists snuffs out, leaving the scent of ozone and singed fabric. With a sigh, Stiles turns back around and pins Sal with a judgmental look. "Of course he's a werewolf. Jeez, you nearly gave me a heart attack," Stiles complains. 

"...You're friends with a full shift werewolf." 

Stiles shares a look with the wolf in question, "Well, I don't know if I'd go so far as to say 'friends', but yeah." 

Sal looks like he doesn't know what to with that, and just watches as Stiles and the wolf come in to the shop. The wolf immediately wanders off, peering at the titles in interest. Sal leans a little closer to Stiles, glancing at where the wolf has vanished around a corner. 

"Stiles, what– do you know how rare that is?" Judging by how disbelieving Sal sounds, no, Stiles does not know how rare that is. He knows it's rare, of course, but clearly there is a degree of awareness he's missing. 

"Enlighten me."

"I've only met one werewolf who could shift fully into a wolf, and even she didn't do it often." 

There's a quiet growl from the room the wolf wandered into. Without body language, Stiles can't tell if it's an angry growl, or just a communication growl. He leans toward the door and says in an only slightly elevated voice, "Feel free to interrupt if the conversation gets too personal."

There's a low rumbling sound in answer, more of a hum than a growl, which Stiles takes as agreement. "Sorry, you were saying?" he asks Sal, who's staring at him even more intently than ever. 

"I... You're... You know what, never mind. We can pretend this is normal. So what can I do for you today?" 

Stiles brightens, "So the other day, when I was working on my coffee maker, I was trying to integrate a lightening rune with a capacitor and and containment ward, but it didn't quite work the way I was hoping it would. Do you have any idea why? Because I think it should work, but I couldn't figure out what to anchor everything on, and probably silverware was a bad idea."

"Stiles. I don't know how to say this in a way you'll understand but that's really not how magic works. Magic is literally destructive energy. It's not something you can power your toaster-" 

"Coffee maker," Stiles corrects automatically. 

"-coffee maker with. No matter how powerful you may be, magic is chaos; entropy given form. It's not a toy, and not something easily harnessed. This isn't like playing with magnets. Magic isn't just a force, it has will. It isn't just..." Sal cuts off, pushing up his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. Stiles waits patiently. 

"...Which lighting rune were you using?" Sal asks, sounding as if he's not sure he wants to know the answer. 

With a satisfied grin, Stiles grabs a pen from the jar on the counter and scrawls the outline of the rune on the back of one of Sal's business cards. Sal stares at it, turning the paper this way and that for a long minute. "This is..." he says at last, "not a lighting rune. I don't even think this is a rune at all." 

"Of course it is!" Stiles squawks indignantly, "I got it from a book!" 

"I don't know what your introduction to magic was like, but this isn't Hogwarts. There aren't just books of actual runes lying around. Knowledge of magic tends to be passed down through families, and otherwise jealously guarded." 

"Oh."

Sal passes the paper back with a raised eyebrow. "Go on then, activate it," he challenges. 

Cheap ball point pen ink isn't the best conduit, Stiles knows, but when he touches the surface of the paper, he can feel a light tingle in his fingers. He supposes he's lucky he didn't draw it very well, since he already knows this particular rune reacts badly to being anchored on paper. All at once, the rune lets out a spray of sparks and bursts into flames. Ah. Spoke too soon then. 

The wolf appears around the corner, catches sight of the still smoking curl of ash in Stiles's hand, snorts, and goes back to whatever he was doing. Good to know the wolf has already been around long enough to be utterly unphased by things like this.

Sal is slightly more phased by this turn of events, although he hardly shows it. When the rune first activated, he'd jerked back and Stiles can see black designs pulsing just above the neckline of his shirt and on his wrists. They're probably magical tattoos and that's not something Stiles had ever considered, but now that he has, it's one of the coolest things he's ever heard of. Sal settles quickly, but he still gives Stiles an unamused look. "Does that always happen?" 

"No," Stiles admits, "It's normally worse. This rune doesn't like... err... recently living things."

"Alright, so your runes– or whatever those are– seem to work fine, so what's the problem?" Sal asks. He sounds irritated for some reason, and while it doesn't completely curb Stiles' enthusiasm, it does dampen it somewhat.

"It's not that they don't work, it's more just... What do you think would happen if I connected that to my coffee maker?" 

Sal expression shifts to mild amusement, and he obligingly listens to Stiles' explanation of the rune combination he tried. Stiles very carefully doesn't mention the throwing knife incident though.

After some minutes of discussion, the wolf strolls back in carrying a book carefully in his mouth. It's a plant guide Stiles doesn't have, not magical but wonderfully detailed, with recognizable pictures. Stiles takes the book and set it on the counter, then turns to give the wolf a look.

"I am not buying whatever you want just because you can't buy it yourself, I'm not rich." The wolf continues to stare expectantly, tail swishing back and forth halfheartedly. Stiles narrows his eyes, "Just this once," he hisses in mock annoyance. The wolf's eyes crinkle at the corners and Stiles doesn't need to be good at reading body language it know the wolf is laughing at him. 

After they leave Sal's, they drop by the grocery store. The woman at the register somehow doesn't see the large wolf wander in after Stiles. Stiles suspects magic is involved, and for once, he's probably not even joking about that. 

The wolf has opinions about everything Stiles buys. There are the obvious things, like buying more meat and nicer shampoo. Then there's surprising things, like paprika and ginger, that pasta sauce in the glass jars, and havarti cheese. Stiles is really not sure what the wolf is intending to do with the spices, but he's curious, and they're cheap enough. 

There's a movie about this, Stiles thinks. He can't remember the title, but it has a rat, probably. Some type of rodent, anyway. Stiles can't think of exactly what the movie was about, but he sure hopes this isn't going that direction. Nonverbal shopping is one thing, but nonverbal cooking directions are something else completely. 

Back home, Stiles is in a much better mood than he usually is after being in town. He hums to himself as he's putting away the groceries. When the wolf walks in, he's humming something that sounds like the wedding march, if weddings involved cymbals and mortal peril. So, not much like the wedding march at all, but close enough to be vaguely reminiscent. 

The wolf immediately turns around again, making an odd snuffling noise. For a second, Stiles thinks he's choking or something, but after a second he realizes he's somehow startled the wolf into laughing aloud. "Are you judging my musical tastes?" Stiles huffs, hands on his hips. He's not really upset, because he's still considering laughter a step up. It's the principle of the thing, though. 

The wolf shakes his head, but he doesn't stop laughing either. 

"Well excuse you, my taste is impeccable," Stiles insists. 

The wolf laughs harder at that. It's starting to sound somewhat wheezy. It really wasn't that funny. He's not sure what hysterical laughter sounds like on a wolf, but maybe this is it? Or maybe he really isn't laughing? After a few more moments of this, Stiles gets a bit concerned. 

"Hey, you okay there, buddy?" he asks, stepping closer. He's not sure what he's planning to do, but he can't just sit there. 

The wolf nods, and slowly the sound tapers into a breathy gasping. The wolf has his ears back and tail tucked next to a leg. He's clearly upset, but Stiles doesn't know why, or what to do about it. 

Stiles drops down to sit against the wall about a foot away. After a moment, the wolf takes two steps and sits down next to him. Stiles stares at the pile of dishes on the counter next to the sink that's still occupied by sharks, and the half empty bags of groceries scattered across the rest of the counter. "We're quite the pair, aren't we?" 

The wolf whines softly at him, then leans over so that his side is braced against Stiles' shoulder. Stiles wraps an arm around him silently and buries his face in the long clean fur of the wolf's back. He doesn't cry, but some deep, achingly lonely place in him eases just a little regardless.

They have a quiet evening. Stiles makes chicken and rice with broccoli and they eat on the floor in front of the couch. After dinner, Stiles pulls out the book of herbs the wolf wanted, and he tells the wolf stories of his initial gardening misadventures. The wolf is amused and horrified in turn, but even that is muted and soft.

Stiles wonders for a moment if this is who he used to be. He wonders if 'quiet and domestic' used to suit him the way it seems to now. He thinks the thought should bother him, but it doesn't. He looks at the book and the wolf and considers the likelihood that he used to do this with someone; maybe even the wolf himself. 

It doesn't matter, he decides as the wolf is falling asleep at his shoulder. Maybe he's the same as he was, or maybe he's not. Either way, he's kind of done letting that dictate his life. This, he determines, is something he likes. He is a person who does this, whether or not he used to, whether or not it suits him. He does this, because it makes him happy, and he doesn't need any other reason. 

It's a harder choice than he expected. It's one thing to say he'll make his own life, and another entirely to go about doing it. Giving up on his old life is hard too. He thinks he's probably always been bad at giving up, but even if he hasn't been, he certainly is now. It's hard to let go, but at the same time, it makes his chest feel the lightest it's been since he arrived in this tiny town with nothing but the clothes on his back. 

Stiles shoves at the wolf, who's half draped over Stiles' shoulder and neck, which is not comfortable at all. "Come on, you, get up. We'll both be upset tomorrow if we sleep down here." The wolf grumbles at him, but gets up with a yawn and plods after Stiles when he goes upstairs. 

The wolf doesn't bother turning into his own room, just follows Stiles into his. The wards ping warningly, but nothing happens when the wolf curls up at the end of Stiles' bed. Stiles isn't sure what time it is, but it's probably later than he thinks it is, because he's too tired to care. He falls into bed without changing out of his clothes and falls asleep sprawled across the top of the bed, half on top of the covers.


	5. Chapter 5

Stiles wakes up to the smell of food and the wolf nowhere to be seen. It's already pretty late in the morning, and Stiles feels like he's still half asleep. He wanders downstairs, groggy. He turns the corner and squints into the well lit room. There's someone in his kitchen. 

In an instant, adrenaline floods his system like a freight train. The hand still hidden by the wall is already sparking and he can feel flares of electricity arc down from his shoulder. He reaches mentally for his wards, scanning frantically for intention and intruders. He doesn't feel anything, aside from the familiar presence of the wolf, but there's clearly someone right there. And-  
And the person turns, and Stiles knows that face. 

Blue eyes on a handsome face, a mouth constantly pulled into a _smirk, and "You must be Stiles."_

The lightning on his arm snuffs out with his sudden lack of concentration. The awareness of the wards fade into background noise. The rest of his thoughts catch up to him and oh. Oh dear. "I know you," he says slowly. "You're the wolf."

"Peter," the man corrects. His voice is hoarse, barely a whisper, as if his vocal cords are very damaged. Or maybe just unused for a long time. Stiles doesn't need to hear it well, though, because he knows. 

Stiles' heart is still pounding, and he's suddenly overwhelmed. He stumbles out the back door. He hears the wolf call after him, but he doesn't stop. He wades out into the plants blindly, seeking something familiar and safe. At some point he must trip or something, because next thing he knows he's on his hands and knees in the dirt. He manages to turn over and his back hits something solid. 

He feels like he can't get enough air into his lungs. Black spots dance in front of his vision. For a moment he doesn't breathe at all. He can hear voices, and he can't tell if they're memories or real. 

_"Come on Stiles, breathe with me."_

_"Deep breaths, in and out."_

__

__

_"Slowly now, that's it."_

Awareness filters back in pieces. He can hear the wind, and the rustling of the plants. They seem more agitated than usual. The grass under his hands is cold. His feet hurt– he's not wearing shoes. Something is twining around his wrists. His head is throbbing. 

It turns out he's sitting against the rowen, tucked behind the wolfsbane. The plants around him are swaying, even when the wind dies. Stiles breathes in and remembers. 

There are a few concrete memories, but it's mostly feelings. He remembers anger and fear and fire. Then, later, exasperation, distrust, and the impotent frustration of wanting to punch someone in the face but knowing he'd only hurt himself. Occasionally, he thinks he remembers a touch of camaraderie; sparks of shared humor and frustration at... something.

He gently untangles the wolfsbane from where it's curled around his hands. He's tired, and still a little dizzy, but... He may as well get this over with.

Stiles gets to his feet unsteadily, and then moves around to the other side of the foliage. From where he's standing, he can see the wolf- Peter standing in the doorway. He looks uncomfortable, staring at the ground somewhere in between the two of them. He realizes that Peter is wearing a pair of his sweatpants and no shirt; likely nothing else of Stiles' clothes fit him.

Peter's chest is a network of angry pink lines and splotches. The ones on his left shoulder look like burns, and there's something that looks like claw marks down his right side. Instinct tells Stiles they shouldn't be there, if they were normally caused and the werewolf was healing properly. He's not sure which of these is the case.

Stiles lets go of the tree to make his way over to the house. The moment his hand leaves the bark, he sways alarmingly. In a flash, Peter is there, offering an arm. They walk slowly back inside, Peter trying to help as much as possible without actually touching Stiles. The whole way Peter is utterly silent. Something about that strikes Stiles as uncharacteristic, but he's not sure how to call him out on it. 

They settle in at the dining room table. Stiles thinks the couch would probably be better, considering how he feels, but he wants something in between him and the werewolf. He's sure it's not necessary, but you know, just in case. 

Stiles opens his mouth to ask Peter what he's doing here. What comes out instead is, "I set you on fire." Well. If anyone ever said Stiles had tact, they'd probably never met him. Peter nods, but doesn't say anything. Again, this strikes Stiles as an unexpected response.

In hindsight, it all makes sense. He didn't have any problem letting the wolf into his home because the wolf felt familiar. Of course he felt like the wolf was familiar. He had even wondered if the wolf was someone he knew. It was just so easy for him to read the wolf's body language, wasn't it. Their friendship had developed so fast, as of it had always been there. There's a slight problem with that one though...

"We weren't friends."

Peter hesitates, like he wants to deny it, then admits, "Well... no." His voice still sounds like he's been eating sandpaper. That's... probably a bad sign. 

"I don't remember you being full shift."

"...It's recent."

"Why are you here?" He wants to ask, 'Why you? Why are you here and no one else?' but he can't actually remember who else is supposed to have found him first. Judging by Peter's expression, some of that shows on his face anyway. 

"Followed the magic."

"My magic? So you were trying to track me?" He's not really sure how he feels about that. 

To his surprise, Peter shakes his head. "Just magic," he rasps.

For a second, he thinks Peter was hunting him. He can remember fighting with Peter, both alongside and against, so it seems like something he does. Then again, Peter doesn't look like he's in the condition to be hunting anything. Probably seeking help then, or maybe scouting. 

"Where's..." the names won't come, no matter how hard he tries, "...everyone else?"

Peter is looking at him strangely, almost cautiously. "Stiles," he says slowly, and this time Stiles doesn't think it's because of his throat, "we thought you were dead." 

Well. That's. Huh. It explains a lot, of course. He somewhat expected it. Still, it's different hearing someone confirm it. It also doesn't actually answer his question at all.

Stiles doesn't remember everything. He hardly remembers anything even now, if he's being honest. He doesn't know who 'everyone else' is, or why they aren't here, but he's not stupid. He can see the way Peter hasn't met his eyes for longer than a second the whole day. Maybe it's his memories, or maybe it's just the hours and hours he's spent reading bestiaries, but he's well aware of the way Peter has his head tilted just a little bit, showing his throat. 

Peter isn't an alpha. He could never show so much vulnerability if he were. It probably still grates, if the Peter Stiles remembers is anything like the one in front of him. To be showing weakness to someone who once killed him, so far from- ...from wherever everyone else is... Peter doesn't have a pack. 

A long wolf cast out of their pack is as good as dead. For werewolves, it's better and worse all at once. Being a lone omega won't kill a werewolf, but it will drive them to madness. Stiles thinks it did drive Peter to madness, once. Whether or not he liked them, he would not have left a pack on his own. One more story Stiles isn't sure he wants to hear.

"I lost some of my memory," Stiles confesses. By 'some', Stiles means 'nearly all', but who's counting. Peter scoffs, as if that's old news. Well, it was probably pretty obvious. 

"...And you've apparently lost your voice," Stiles comments when Peter doesn't verbally respond. Peter touches his throat and grimaces, shrugging. 

"You're not healing right– that's why you need me, isn't it? My magic helps, or at least you think it can." Peter nods, absently curling and uncurling his right hand. "It's already helping," Stiles guesses. Peter tilts his head to the side and down for half a second, as if conceding the point. 

Stiles still has a headache. He isn't sure he wants Peter, who is undoubtedly biased, to try to explain his past to him. He's not sure he wants his past explained to him in the first place. He wants to eat, and then he wants to lie down and forget this morning even exists. That, and he's getting a little tired of interrogating an effectively mute person. One last order of business then.

"If you're going to stay, I'm going to need a couple assurances."

"What, want to give me a tracker?" Peter snarls hoarsely, somewhat sarcastic, but... But he seems a little angry, and just as helpless. It sounds like an argument he's used to having. If not this exactly, he's at least used to a blatant lack of trust. He's desperate, too. He'd probably let Stiles give him a tracker, if it was what he asked for. He'd fight Stiles every step of the way, but in the end he'd let him. 

"No," Stiles says carefully, aware he's treading on thin ice here, "I was thinking more along the lines of a blanket promise that you're not going to try to murder me." 

Peter opens his mouth, then blinks a couple times. Closes his mouth. Frowns at Stiles. "I wouldn't."

"Great. We'll get along fine then. Naturally, I'll also refrain from attempting to kill you." 

Peter hasn't stopped frowning at him yet. "That's it?"

"What more would I need?" Peter doesn't argue, but he doesn't stop staring at Stiles either. "Was I not like this before?" 

Peter pauses for a moment, tilting his head to the side. "You were," he concludes, but he sounds confused. Stiles must be missing something here, but he really doesn't care. 

"Were you making food?" 

Peter stares a moment longer, then gets up and wanders into the kitchen. Five minutes later he walks back out with two plates of eggs and toast. He doesn't say anything as Stiles digs into his plate appreciatively, but he keeps giving Stiles these looks, almost wary. 

Peter takes the dishes into the kitchen and returns as a wolf, holding the borrowed sweatpants gently between his teeth. He seems determined to pretend there's nothing weird about the situation, so Stiles doesn't say anything. 

The bottle of ibuprofen is still sitting on the coffee table, and Stiles makes for it. Peter follows him, giving the bottle a long look, then nudging Stiles towards the couch. A little bemused, he lets Peter herd him onto the couch and attempt to drape a blanket over him. 

Like before Peter lounges on top of him. It's a little strange now, knowing who Peter is, but Stiles tries not to think about it. Wolves are pretty tactile, he thinks, so this isn't weird unless he makes it weird. Stiles' headache fades to a low buzz in the back of his mind and he burrows deeper into the couch in relief. 

He dozes aimlessly, and wakes feeling somewhat rested for once. Peter is either still awake, or woke before Stiles, because he's looking up curiously when Stiles lifts his head. According to the clock on the wall, it's early afternoon. That's much earlier than Stiles was expecting, but his headache is nothing more than a memory, so he doesn't mind. 

Peter follows him to his workroom, looking around with apparently renewed interest. When Stiles settles at his desk, Peter paces back and forth a couple times, as if looking for something. Stiles, who is busy setting up to do metal etching, doesn't pay him any attention until Peter suddenly leaps onto the deck in a flurry of loose papers. Stiles squawks indignantly, frantically trying to keep him from knocking over anything important. Peter maneuvers to the clean side of the desk delicately and lies down with a smug sort of rumbling noise. 

Stiles glares at him, "If you wanted to see what was going on, I could have gotten you a chair or something," he grouses halfheartedly. Peter, naturally, does not deign to respond to that. 

Today, Stiles feels like trying to make a charm that prevents nightmares. He's never done it before, but it seems useful. Or at very least, like something that would sell. Stiles chatters absently while he's working, explaining what he's doing, and why he thinks it'll work. 

The charm itself is steel; he's found that the effects of metal choice are generally not worth the irritation of trying to use a relevant metal. "Lots of metals have symbolism, but the really significant ones tend to be... err... the bad ones. Mercury, lead, antimony. Or the noble ones, and I'm not making gold or silver charms. Just... no." 

Peter looks interested in the topic, but not quite the way a fellow craftsman would. He's watching Stiles' face more than his hands. Periodically, he nods, makes huffy laughing noises, or an odd warbling whine that Stiles interprets as a request for clarification. 

Even when he wants more information, he seems to be more curious about Stiles' theory, rather then any practical part of the process. Stiles, who doesn't often have the chance to show off, is all too happy to oblige. Although he talks to Sal, he isn't the same variety of magical as Sal (Stiles is betting on Druid) which tends to make Sal skeptical at best. Having an interested, unbiased audience is a wonderful change. 

The charm, once Stiles is finished, is an oblong coin shape with rounded edges about the size of his thumb. The edges are covered in tiny etched runes, and in the center the lower half of a circle is drawn, with lines radiating out from it. Peter stares at it for a long moment, tilting his head this way and that. 

"It's supposed to be a closed eye," Stiles admits huffily. Peter looks up at him, down at the charm, then turns away. "Get off my desk," Stiles complains to the silently laughing wolf. 

Stiles stands up and stretches, while Peter picks his way across the cluttered surface, onto Stiles' chair, then the floor. It's evening, but not late yet, so Stiles thinks maybe he'll put a little more effort into dinner. Maybe try some of the spices Peter wanted. After that, he thinks it might be nice to try to make the DVD player work again– a movie with Peter's snarky not quite commentary seems like an experience he shouldn't waste. 

Morning is quiet; its earlier than Stiles has been up probably all month, not including the nights he didn't sleep more than an hour or two. Peter doesn't seem overly inclined to change back into a person, and Stiles isn't overly inclined to do anything about it. 

After breakfast, Stiles heads into the library to do some fact checking. The charm he'd made the day before was effective in that he hadn't had nightmares, but a little alarming in that to his memory, he hadn't dreamt at all. The lack of dreams doesn't particularly bother Stiles, but the implications do. He's heard somewhere that dreaming is the brain processing, which seems like something that shouldn't be interrupted. 

Eventually, Peter shows up and drags him out of the room by his sleeve. To Stiles' surprise, it's already past noon, and his stomach is growling. Stiles makes sandwiches for both of them, which Peter eyes with distain. He still eats his share, though. 

While Stiles is doing the dishes– err, trying to do the dishes– Peter goes upstairs and gets Stiles' coat and shoes. Stiles humors him and puts both on, and allows himself to be pulled out the door. They walk down the driveway leisurely until they reach the road, where Peter turns right. 

The forest is old, Stiles can feel it in his bones. The trees are large and steady. At the same time, the same fire that brushed the house is evident in the burn scars on trees, and the lack of well-established underbrush. The fire, Stiles suspects, was not large or terribly long lasting; the house is largely undamaged, and the larger trees seem to be well on the way to recovery. Still, the trees aren't very dense, and what underbrush is present is small enough to be ignorable. They have no difficulty making their way alongside the road.

After awhile, Stiles starts feeling a shift in the ambient magic. Some ten feet ahead, they come across one of the property's cornerstones. It's been awhile since Stiles was out here to check on the stones; probably not since he laid the wards, but they seem to be fine. When Stiles mentions that they're at the property line, Peter obligingly turns right again, to follow the invisible border. 

They go by another corner before Stiles starts getting a little tired. His property isn't that large, but it isn't all that small either. A little shy of eight acres, if he remembers correctly. 

"From here it's a straight line until you hit the fence, which goes all the way back to the road, if you want to keep going," Stiles offers. Peter nods, but when Stiles turns to walk back to the house, he follows. 

That's the way things are, from then on. Peter occasionally cooks or wants to read something with the convenience of being able to turn the pages himself, but otherwise he tends to stay as a wolf. Stiles is awake more often now, generally less tired, so he's in his workshop experimenting most days. 

Peter usually joins him for the first couple hours, and listens to him chatter about whatever he's working on. Once or twice, Peter even changes back to debate theory with Stiles. 

Stiles knows this easy companionship is too good to last. He knows it in the same way he knows the next full moon is only days away; no concrete reasoning, just a quiet certainty. For that reason, he embraces it gladly, clinging to every moment he gets. And things are good. Not forever, perhaps, but for the moment, and Stiles thinks he has always been the sort to live in the moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey look at that, I finished a chapter! This last– however long it's been since I last posted, I've been moving, but I'm all settled in now. For those of you who are curious, the town of Wilda is a completely fictional town somewhere in the mountains in Northern California.  
> In part this chapter also took forever because the original draft contained a solid two pages of existential amnesia angst, and it took me awhile to figure out how to replace that with actual interesting writing. Well, debatably interesting writing.  
> Also let me know if any of the formatting seems strange; I had the hardest time with this chapter.


	6. Chapter 6

Fall has faded toward winter without Stiles noticing. October passed all too quickly with some of the best days Stiles remembers having. Now it's November, and things are getting weird again, as they tend to do. 

"No, look, I don't know where the sharks came from- no I don't- yes, that's what I'm saying... Ok yes, I understand that you don't believe me, and that's fine, but if you can't pick them up, can you at least tell me how to move them? I have a spare bathtub-" 

The front door swings open just as Stiles is setting the phone down with a curse. Peter strolls in, giving the phone a curious look. "That other aquarium in Sacramento didn't believe me either. They hung up on me. Ha, see if I try honesty again."

Peter snorts rather unsympathetically and passes Stiles to head for the kitchen. Once Peter gets near the table, the door swings shut silently behind him. The doors automatically open and close for Peter– an invention that was added after the somewhat amusing incident with the back door several weeks back. Turns out Peter can get through closed doors as a wolf if he really wants to, though to be fair, not much of the original door survived that event. 

"Anything today?" Stiles asks absently as he looks up the next aquarium's phone number. Generally, Peter takes the time to patrol the property sometime in the afternoon. He normally doesn't find anything, of course, but sometimes he does. As winter solstice approaches, their visitors have been getting more frequent. And in some ways stranger. 

There's still some time until the next full moon, so Stiles isn't really expecting anything. Still, better safe, and all that. Luckily, solstice doesn't fall on an interesting moon phase this year. Stiles shudders to think of the mess that'd be. He already has enough trouble trying to keep less friendly visitors from finding him the same way Peter did. 

Together they managed to figure out how to tweak the property wards to hide the flares of magic Peter had tracked. However... the wards themselves can't be hidden, and they are both new, and conspicuous in their newness. 

Stiles almost wishes he'd bought an old magical property, but then, those are in somewhat short supply these days. When he asked Peter how he used to deal with magical flares, Peter just gave him a confused look and shook his head. He's not entirely sure if that means Peter doesn't know, or if somehow just wasn't an issue for Stiles before. 

Peter makes an uninterested sound that Stiles interprets as a no. That's all good with Stiles. He doesn't mind defending his land, but it's not his favorite thing. A necessary inconvenience.

Peter emerges from the kitchen with a cutting board and knife clutched delicately in his mouth. He drops both on the table near Stiles, and goes back into the kitchen. This time he returns with the bowl of apples that's normally on the counter, and a hand towel. 

"Hello, yes, I've got an odd question for you..." Stiles says into the phone, absently wiping off the cutting board and knife with one hand. He cradles the phone between his head and shoulder and starts cutting up one of the apples. "Yes that's right, friend of a friend– I never met the guy, must have been an interesting sort of person though... Haha, yeah, I mean, you don't expect to find sharks in someone's sink when you're cleaning out their house... No, my friend didn't know either." 

Stiles sets half of the apple slices on the end of the cutting board nearest to Peter's chair. Well, end table, but it's large enough for Peter to comfortably sit, and about the right height for the table. Peter eats his share one by one, delicately plucking individual slices with sharp fangs. It should look ridiculous, but somehow it seems perfectly normal to Stiles. Huh, maybe he's been around Peter too long. 

"Later this week? Yeah no, that's perfect. Let me give you the address... Sure, just give me a call when you're close, I'll come over and let you in. Ok great! Haha, I'm glad this worked out, I was running out of ideas... Yeah, thanks, bye!" 

Stiles hangs up and sets the phone on the table. He bites into an apple, still not looking away from the phone. "I'm going to regret this later, aren't I...?" he says conversationally. Peter snorts and steals one of Stiles' apple slices. "Oi!" Stiles protests, but reaches for another apple regardless. 

He's halfway through cutting it when the wards chime. It's the property wards, in the direction of the road. It's not actually all that unusual; there's no fence or gate, and while the house has been considered abandoned for awhile, there's the occasional neighbor or persistent salesman who stop by. Less, now that Stiles 'has an aggressive dog', but still. That doesn't mean Stiles intends to let them get all the way to the door. 

Stiles is up and halfway to the door before he considers how he looks. He's barefoot, wearing sweatpants and a Star Wars tee shirt with a blanket draped haphazardly over his shoulders. Oops. Powerful and imposing, indeed. He tosses the blanket in the direction of the couch as he passes the door to the living room, but deems it too late for anything else. 

Peter is at his heels, as always. Stiles hasn't been able to get the wards to notify Peter of anything yet. Still, he can probably hear their guest by now. Err, maybe. Stiles will have to ask how sensitive his hearing actually is later. Is it more sensitive as a full wolf? That would make sense, only he's never seemed all that bothered by Stiles' inadvertent sudden loud noises when he's experimenting. It's precisely this tendency towards distraction that used to keep him hungry and sleepless before he had Peter to think about. 

They get outside to find it's not a person coming up the path, but a little hovering spot of light. As it gets closer, the spot resolves into a tiny humanoid shape with hummingbird-quick wings and a glowing body. Or rather, that's probably what they normally look like. As it is, the light is flickering and occasionally their wings stop moving and the figure drops a few feet before they start again. 

They drop onto the railing near where Peter and Stiles are standing and the light stutters out for a tense second or two. Stiles gets closer cautiously. The little figure looks like a pixie, which are generally harmless enough, but he's well aware that things aren't always as them seem. 

"You..." a tiny, bell-like voice gasps. "This is your land...?" 

Stiles shares a look with Peter. "Yes," he confirms, carefully neutral. He's not sure he likes where this is going. 

"The witch... She took us from our home tree. We are.... fading. She has almost finished the sacrifice..." 

Stiles looks back over at Peter and grimaces at the expression he finds there. Yeah, he figured he wasn't going to like it. Wonderful. 

The whole thing seems very nostalgic. They spend the first part of the day researching to make sure they’re not going in blind. Since Stiles is more familiar with the books he owns, Peter– who is reluctantly in human form– is regaled to the laptop. After they’re as prepared as they’re likely to get on short notice, they pack up and head out. The whole thing culminates in a showdown with the witch, as these things normally happen. 

She seems fairly personable, until they get to the part where they reveal that they’ve figured out the ritual she’s going for. Thing is, practicing magic isn’t really against any rules. Rituals themselves aren’t bad either. It’s just, anything requiring human sacrifice tends to be on the illegal side no matter who you ask. 

Stiles didn’t have an actual plan aside from ‘make sure the ritual doesn’t work’. He had vague thoughts about arresting the woman, but he’s not sure that’s even possible. It doesn’t end up mattering in the end. 

As soon as it becomes clear they aren’t going to let her continue, she’s running at them, daggers out. On the way, she tosses something Peter’s direction that makes him yelp, then she’s onto Stiles. 

Stiles blocks her first attack with a rubber-hilted butter knife. The first dagger’s landing only sends an unpleasant jolt up his arm. On the second hit, the containment ward shutters and snaps, sending electricity arcing between the two blades. The burst sends the witch staggering back, and Stiles takes the opportunity to make sure Peter is okay. He’s on the ground, but seems to be recovering fast.

“It’s no use, your dog won’t be getting back up,” the witch snaps from where she’s retreated across the clearing. “I’ve heard about you,” she continues, “The boy and his dog that’ve been playing house in this area. Your little parlor tricks won’t be enough to stop me,” she croons. “That’s alright; I’ve been looking for another sacrifice!” With that, she hurls herself across the clearing again. Power crackles down Stiles’ arms, and he has the brief but terrifying thought that it isn't going to be enough. Stiles only has time to raise his now useless weapon before there’s a growl and Peter is leaping past him. The witch, clearly taken off guard, goes down with a scream that fades into a wet gurgle. 

The ensuing silence seems to almost ring. Peter lifts his head and turns to Stiles. He’s got blood spattered all across his front and his eyes are glowing blue. The knife slips out of Stiles’ hand nervelessly. Peter makes a concerned wuffling noise. 

“That... went badly,” Stiles comments.

Peter looks down at the witch, then back up at Stiles. He looks kind of confused, like he’s not sure what the problem is. Before Stiles can try to answer, the pixie that led them to the witch swoops out from behind a tree. They’re looking much better, flying steadily, even if they’re still a bit flickery. They’re gesturing wildly and talking so fast it sounds like a high-pitched hum to Stiles. When he sees the glowing glass jars around the outside of the clearing, he figures he’s probably got the gist of it. 

There’s a total of five pixies, and they’re all looking rather worse for wear. Once Stiles lets them out, they flutter around his head and rest on his shoulders like a small glowing cloud. Stiles and Peter systematically dismantle the rest of the ritual site. The witch hasn’t gotten terribly far yet, so there’s isn’t too much to do; Stiles takes the books she had lying around back to his Jeep and fetches the shovels and Peter’s clothes. Together, they dig a grave and while Peter is pulling apart the table and disposing of any obvious signs of use, Stiles burns the body. Once the grave is filled in around the ashes, Stiles coaxes the grass to grow back over the spot. 

The drive back is silent; Stiles is both tired and lost in thought. He can’t help thinking of all the ways that could have gone wrong. There was only the one witch, and everything turned out fine, but what if she had realized Peter was a werewolf from the start? What if she’d had a friend? Stiles had always been pretty confident that he’d be able to defend himself no matter the circumstances, but now he’s not sure. The thought eats at him as they clean out the car and settle the pixies temporarily in the hemlock in the back garden. 

His preoccupation is probably why he doesn’t notice how quiet Peter is the whole time. Granted, Peter isn’t one for making conversation at the best of times– not hard to do considering he’s generally a wolf. To his credit, Stiles does notice when Peter starts breathing harder and bracing himself against walls if he’s near one. He knows he probably should have noticed earlier when Peter doesn’t even complain about Stiles making him lie down on the couch. 

As far as Stiles can tell, Peter has a fever. His temperature is up and he seems kind of out of it. Problem is, Stiles has no idea what to do about it. He didn’t even know werewolves could have fevers. 

Stiles settles Peter on the couch with a pile of blankets and several glasses of water, then carts down a stack of books and his laptop. While Peter sleeps, Stiles splits his time between researching werewolf health and trying to figure out exactly what the witch did. All he knows for sure is that it’s not any wolfsbane he’s heard of. However there are quite a number of strains, and not all of them have well-known effects. 

At about three in the morning, he stumbles onto a spell that looks about right. There’s nothing about it that should permanently harm a werewolf, but at the same time, there’s nothing Stiles can do, aside from what he’s already doing. 

With a sigh, Stiles gets up to refill one of the water glasses. Peter has kicked off a couple blankets, and as Stiles goes to tuck them around the prone figure, his hand brushes Peter’s forehead. His skin is damp, and for a moment, Stiles can’t remember what that means. Suddenly it registers, and Stiles slumps back into his chair in relief. The fever has broken. 

Stiles wakes up in the same chair some time later with a crick in his neck and no memory of falling asleep. Peter still seems slightly groggy, but he’s sitting up and appears to be lucid again. It’s late morning, and one of the pixies is flitting around the room impatiently. Stiles orders Peter to keep resting while he sorts out the pixies. Peter growls at him for his concern, but stays put with the added bribe of Stiles’ laptop. 

The pixies, at it turns out, were shipped from Europe in a box containing a branch from their home tree. The branch kept them alive, but once it died, the pixies began to fade quickly. Apparently Stiles has poured so much ambient magic into his garden that they’ve managed to mostly recover. They’re not planning on sticking around though. 

They seem comfortable enough in Stiles’ garden, but the moment he mentions settling here instead they get all shifty, and insist that they really do need to go home. They can fly far enough, apparently, so long as they have a source of magic with them. Stiles takes the easiest option and makes small cuttings off the hemlock and carefully wraps them so they stay fresh. The pixies somehow attach the cuttings to their lower backs– Stiles doesn’t ask how– and when that seems to be working, prepare to set off. 

They eat apples out of the garden and Stiles takes the chance to pour a little more magic into the cuttings by etching mild protective wards into the bark. In the late afternoon, the pixies assemble above the porch railing to say goodbye to Stiles. The first pixie they talked to– at least Stiles is pretty sure it’s the same one– bows and says in its high, clear voice, “We will not forget you, Mediator. Should you ever require us, you need only call.” The rest bow and Stiles bows back, then they’re gone, darting into the trees and out of sight. 

When Stiles turns to go back inside, Peter is leaning in the doorway. “Mediator, hmm?” Peter is still pale and slightly shaky looking, but he’s showered and changed clothes. Stiles hums noncommittally, struck all over again by how close they came to disaster. 

Over a quiet dinner Stiles hardly remembers making, Stiles looks up and meets Peter’s eyes. Peter is still human, for reasons best known to himself, so the concern on his face is easier to read than ever. 

Stiles opens his mouth to comment on it, but what comes out instead is, “She was right,” Peter’s face shades briefly into alarm, and Stiles hurries to finish the thought, “we have been playing house.” Peter’s expression doesn’t fade so much as... cool. It looks rather abruptly like he’s watching a bomb, wondering in a detached sort of way if it’ll go off. 

“We’re never doing that again. I don’t know what it was like before, but that was too close. Sure, we survived and she didn’t, but what if her spell thing had been more effective? She shouldn’t have been able to do that in the first place. I could have lost you. I’m not losing you. If we're doing this, we're doing it right."

Peter's surprise bleeds into sharp amusement. "I'll never say no to having an advantage," he agrees mildly and if his smiles seems foreboding, well, Stiles is willing to go to nearly any length to make sure he doesn't lose anything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting close to the end! Probably, anyway. No promises.


End file.
